


We'll Set A Fire Just To See What It Kills

by knightlysoulsnatcher



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst, First Kiss, HannigramFirstKissChallenge, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2019-02-25 19:40:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13219827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knightlysoulsnatcher/pseuds/knightlysoulsnatcher
Summary: Will cannot deny himself or Hannibal, not now.





	We'll Set A Fire Just To See What It Kills

**Author's Note:**

> title taken from Little Faith by the national (slightly altered)

The candlelight casts elegant yet harsh shadow-light along Hannibal’s features. It has always been a welcome challenge, detecting warmth and frost alike in Hannibal’s construction of self, physical and verbal, and sifting through rehearsals and carefully drafted conversations to find jagged edges of slick sincerity.

 

The truth of Hannibal is this: whatever he projects is always grounded in reality. The trick is which reality, how much is ensnared in clever narrative constructs. The trick-truth is in the graceful movements and crisp voice. Will Graham has always understood people who tread carefully best, always inadvertently admired those like Hannibal, immersing themselves fully in charades built by truths they meant to conceal.

 

Hannibal’s red sweater, lovely, familiar, molds itself to his lovelorn attitude much better than his elegant suits, or their recent ragged clothes from the cliff plunge. He feels the edges of Hannibal’s love licking up his legs like the ocean; pushing and pulling, slowly urging him forward, backward. Fluid dissonance, and he finds himself matching his gift-smile. Mouth twisting up as his hand presses against the doorframe, Will watches Hannibal sit at his desk.

 

In this house, Hannibal’s study is considerably smaller, though it carries the same weight and aloof warmth Will’s grown accustomed to from his previous study. Hannibal compliments the room as he does any, wrapping the atmosphere around himself, drawing comfort from physical manifestations of his chosen identity. The elegance, admittedly—much to Will’s appreciation—softer, subtler, magnifies itself when he’s in moods such as these.

 

Hannibal notices Will; it’s difficult to hide from him, now more so than ever. Hannibal curls around the spaces Will occupies regardless of location, sifting through his personhood and lingering in-between cracks and crevices like an incorrigible fog. Searching for him even now, hoping against hope that he remains, as though Will should still flee.

 

Will knows Hannibal has found himself tripping over minor anxieties, the loss of him from their shared space, the possibility of repeated abandonment. It remains a constant between them; Hannibal, searching, staring. Mapping him out with his eyes, only allowing himself the softest of touches. Will, waiting, ebbing and flowing, pretending he has any ability to leave Hannibal.

 

He feels Hannibal look up at him, and Will falls into familiar desperation as he meets his gaze, supplications and proclamations smeared inside his mouth like the thick taste of sleep. Still, Will stays beside the entrance, watching Hannibal avoid acknowledging him beyond the caresses of his stare.

 

Avoidance like this makes Will’s skin flush, stomach pleasantly warm. Before this pseudo-avoidance, they were in recovery from the fall, too exhausted and hurried to continue their unorthodox courtship beyond careful caresses between taking care of their wounds and pressing close in the night, sleeping in the same bed.

 

Waking up side-by-side, not fully touching, their bodies often facing the other. Hannibal’s sleepy haze less instinctive and more a production. Endearing, all the same. His rough voice warmly tangling in the shared sheets, his feet beside Will’s, slipping between them, toes brushing his. Hannibal in nothing but sleep pants, Will in a t-shirt and boxers. Skin dangerously close, never touching in the preciseness Will craved. Before the fall, before Hannibal’s hands clinically assessed his wounds and treated them accordingly, and it might’ve been significant to Will; however, he’s found himself easing into coexistence with the realization of how much Hannibal means to him, how far he is willing to go, and how far he has already gone.

 

He knows how Hannibal watches him, how his gaze trails along his skin, down his arms, fixated on his hands and his lips. He knows how he feels when that gaze burns the hair on his arms, legs. It is this remembrance and the pleasure of teasing that prompts Will to turn around and leave the room.

 

The walls between them will be struck down. At least, one layer of the remaining blockade Will’s not even sure continues to exist. How can it, when they are alive together, liberated by the Great Red Dragon, the perfection of the hunt and the exhilaration of freedom and fleeing.

 

They are alive. This is not Will’s design; however, he almost prefers it. That they and their bond be snuffed out in cold ocean water following a dubiously consensual cliff dive following a fully consensual caress-cuddle-hug between them is not entirely appropriate. For all the danger they pose in their shared bloodlust, he overlooked the depths of their mutual craving. Of Hannibal’s pining, as deep, limitless, and starving as his cannibalistic urges. Of Will’s enamored state.

 

As Will enters his bedroom, wondering whether Hannibal has already begun following him or will do so later, he runs a hand through his hair carefully. Sighs. Consensual affection and devotion between himself and Hannibal Lecter is almost more horrifying than the thrill of shared hunting, shared blood smearing their clothes, fists, mouths.

 

True to Will’s instincts, Hannibal follows him. Something about this evening rings clear in Will’s blood, thrums steady warmth in his chest. Trapped torches blazing at Hannibal’s command; Will finds himself willingly helpless, knowing full well his strength overpowers Hannibal’s even as he plays innocent, leans against the dresser.

 

Tonight is not a night for games. “I felt your gaze earlier,” Hannibal offers, nonchalantly staring at himself in the mirror above the dresser. Will knows it takes a considerable portion of self-control for Hannibal to avoid staring directly at him. He hardly looks away from Will when they are near, expression a mixture of enraptured fondness and familiar patient distance.

 

Will offers no verbal answer. There are no necessary words, and Will has grown too fond of Hannibal’s artistry to spoil it with unmatched responses.

 

Hannibal finally stares at him, and, even though it is chastising, Will finds himself aching to be closer. Still, it is Hannibal who again chases Will, striding to him. Neither reaches out to close the shrunken space between them; neither minds, Will’s accustomed to his roving stare, which, for all its intensity, might as well be his hands, mouth.

 

“Will you deny me a third time, Will?”

 

Even though Will believes his answer obvious, Hannibal’s calm, quiet voice reveals his anxiety, ever-present in the particular handling of his words and tone, the way he stands just so, the perfect picture of respect. It would be enough to make Will frustrated, had they not approached the brink of blatant mutual attraction only to backpedal into bloody betrayal. He understands his anxiety all too well.

 

Will steps forward this time, hands reaching for Hannibal’s face. Remembering even as he feels warm, smooth-rough skin and feels the heat from Hannibal against his face the sudden plunge of Hannibal’s knife. His smile-scar itches, aching.

 

He almost flinches when Hannibal presses closer, one hand hovering over his abdomen.

 

Will nods, feeling more than hearing or seeing Hannibal inhale sharply, his hand skimming over his clothes before ducking under, tracing the wound. His eyes glisten with blatant, vulnerable tears. His other hand glides up Will’s arm, shoulder, neck, resting against his face, and Will wastes no time, leaning into his caress with a smile he feels spreading through his body, though it never quite reaches his lips.

 

Their noses brush.

 

“I have waited long for this, Will,” Hannibal breathes against his mouth, thumb caressing his cheek.

 

Whether Will speaks out of the remnants of savage anger and betrayal or remorse for the past, he will never truly know. It is the implication of Will only just accepting his adoration that breaks his silence. A bitter smile meets Hannibal’s breath, his expression shifting minutely from adoration to fleeting concern. “You could have had me from the beginning. You could have always had me.” It is not necessarily remorse for the present; however, Will finds something in him responding with smugness at the remorseless pain that flashes in Hannibal’s eyes, in the twitch of his thumb.

 

He informs Hannibal simply for the delight of proving him wrong. Will holds no small amount of mixed feelings regarding his evolution, guided by Hannibal’s violently loving hands, but he knows this: who he is now is terrifyingly beautiful. And; who he has shaped Hannibal into is also terrifyingly beautiful.

 

Hannibal’s eyes glisten even still, though no tears fall. Suddenly, Will cannot let Hannibal continue staring at him like this. He knows that, though their respective emotions are their own, his expression mirrors Hannibal’s. How could it not, when he has been denying himself as much as Hannibal, when his own hands ached for his skin.

 

His hands still holding Hannibal’s face, Will pulls him closer, kisses his cheeks before hovering over his mouth, their lips barely brushing.

 

“You have always had me,” Hannibal murmurs, lips moving against Will’s.

 

Even this is too much for Will, this close contact, Hannibal’s affection unshrouded. It is unbearable feeling Hannibal’s skin against his, unbearable in the sweetest way; he feels the urge to weep swoop down his body, goosebumps rising in its wake. Still, he cannot remain frozen, teased by his own control.

 

Their lips touch properly, finally, Will’s eyes closed as he feels Hannibal’s tears against his hands. The kiss is soft, tentative only in the slowness of their movements. It is far more controlled than Will ~~(dreamed)~~ would have expected. Still, it progresses, Hannibal’s tongue eventually brushing against his, licking into his mouth.

 

Will makes a noise, and Hannibal answers, pressing closer, the hand touching his scar brushing over it as it glides to his hip, caressing the skin there as it holds him steady.

 

When they pull away, Hannibal breathes Will’s name against his lips. Will nuzzles him, then kisses his jaw. He wasn’t expecting Hannibal breaking him through the use of his own name, but it really isn’t surprising anymore.

 

If anyone were to break Will Graham using his own personhood, it would be Hannibal. It has been, and will continue to be, Hannibal. There can be no one else.


End file.
